


Sacrificial

by TheDarkivist



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dark, Epistolary, Fire, Gen, He/Him and They/Them Pronouns for Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Manipulation, Non-Linear Narrative, Period-Typical Sexism, Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives), Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27801367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkivist/pseuds/TheDarkivist
Summary: Jon decides to steal a few hours for himself. A statement giver reflects on the pros and cons of marriage. An empty bus makes its way through the night. Set in S4, but only very loosely.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

“ _To be the object of desire is to be defined in the passive case._

_To exist in the passive case is to die in the passive case – that is, to be killed._

_This is the moral of the fairy tale about the perfect woman.”_

_\- Angela Carter_

  
  


Jon put down his cane and made himself comfortable in the back seat of the empty bus. He was huddled in the corner, his old tote bag on the seat next to him, signalling to anyone who might want to sit next to him that he wanted to be left alone. Though, he thought to himself grimly, most of those who wanted to talk to him lately wouldn’t be discouraged that easily.

It could be around one in the morning, but it wasn’t dark outside, not really. Remarkably difficult to find darkness in the centre of London. The unhealthy orange glow would have to do. Jon didn’t care – he didn’t care about the destination either. He used to do that – get on a random bus and let it take him anywhere it pleased until the inside of his head went quiet.

It was just him, the night, and – he pulled out a folder with a statement he grabbed in the Archives – a nice vintage. The folder did nothing to attract his attention when he was looking for something to read which was why he picked that one.

_Dear Mr Magnus,_

_it might surprise you that I’m writing to you, as I doubt you remember me, as we’ve only met once, some years ago. My name is Benedict Moran and the reason behind the letter you now hold in your hands is that I was informed you collect ghost stories or something of that nature._

_A year or so ago, I found Mrs Moran in great distress over a letter from her close friend, one miss Celia Waterhouse. After some questioning, she made me privy to the contents of the letter, and already back then I briefly thought about contacting you over the most curious narrative within. But then some trifling professional matters kept me occupied elsewhere, and I forgot all about it, until recently, when it was brought to my attention that the tale came to an unexpected conclusion._

_Perhaps it won’t interest you. It pains me to say, but miss Waterhouse’s imagination would be better employed in needlework, or in other feminine occupation that would not urge her to invent nonsensical accusations against good and proper people. She also suffers from that very womanly affliction that causes her to say very little in too many words, and so I took the liberty of omitting some details and some names that weren’t all too pertinent to the narrative. Despite all of that, I found her tale rather charming in its artlessness and I believe that should you not find it particularly interesting, it will, at the very least, entertain._

_Regards,_

_B. Moran_

  
  


Jon knew he didn’t bring a tape recorder, but when he noticed it on the top of his bag, its little green light blinking cheerfully, he wasn’t surprised. Jon didn’t even read the statement yet and he was already resigned to it being true, but something about the accompanying note made his throat feel tight. One person’s personal tragedy was another’s source of entertainment for – he shuffled the papers – between twenty and thirty minutes, apparently.

  
  


_Dear Laura,_

_I’m sorry for the long silence. And it’s even worse – I write to you after such a long time to ask for your counsel because you were always much wiser than I. And if, after reading this letter, you tell me I’m being a foolish, ungrateful wretch, I will accept it without any hard feelings. Of course, I know you’re too kind to say that; silence will suffice._

_Some of the things I’m to divulge here aren’t new to you, but I believe that you will be able to judge m_ _y situation_ _with more ease if I don’t withhold any details from you._ _The…_ _situation had been in motion since I was a child but it never dawned on me in what a predicament I found myself until I heard the clasp of the choker around my throat._ _Strings upon strings of pearls that feel cold against my skin no matter how long I hold them in my hand. Every movement of my neck is a chilly reminder of the horrors awaiting me in every direction._

_I_ _looked at my reflection in the mirror, suddenly struck dumb with terror. I saw lady Vega smile, resting her hands on my shoulders. I suppose she mistook my reaction for maidenly bashfulness for we both knew she always meant to give the necklace to her daughter._ _To a daughter she didn’t have. Can you resent someone for their generosity? I coloured, and protested, I couldn’t possibly accept… she squeezed my shoulder and silenced me._ _But I… No, you’re too kind, but I mustn’t…_

_She told me she knew from the first moment she saw me that I’d wear it one day._

_T_ _hat was at least ten years ago and she was right. Is it unkind of me to suspect she made sure she’d be right in the end?_ _My family moved into the countryside when I was ten, eleven maybe._ _For reasons I was too young_ _to recall with any clarity_ _, we found ourselves in reduced circumstances, and were forced to retreat into the last house we owned, with fewer than_ _six_ _servants. Naturally, at that age it didn’t make much of a difference to me, but in retrospect I can see how heavily my parents felt the change. I myself was content enough,_ _and quite happy with the relative freedom I enjoyed in the country, compared to London._ _Social life in such areas offers little variety, so I suppose it wasn’t all that surprising when lady Marie Celeste Vega took the liberty of introducing herself,_ _and she’d been a constant in my life ever since._ _She and Lawrence, her only son._

_Lawrence proposed to me yesterday._

_False coyness aside, it didn’t necessarily come as a surprise. We’ve been close – perhaps closer than advisable_ _or proper_ _– ever since we were children. He was a year older, which might as well be a decade at that age, but there were very few families of a similar standing, and therefore not many peers for either of us. He was somewhat sickly, constantly ‘under the weather’ even on the brightest, sunniest of days,_ _and as unpredictable as his own health._

_Lawrence was a riot when he was well. He knew more games than anyone I know, that much still holds true, but the one he couldn’t get enough was hide-and-seek. Though I was never any good at it, he didn’t seem to mind. One time, I hid in his mother’s_ _wardrobe, and when minutes passed and nobody was coming to get me, I felt very pleased with myself. I was nestled between rich_ _mauve_ _velvets and black silks trimmed with antique lace. I peered into the room through the keyhole, giddy with excitement and self-congratulatory glee. Nobody was coming to get me, and I was growing restless, but soon the warmth and the smell of lavender kept between the garments lulled me to sleep._

_W_ _hen I woke up, it was dark outside, but I could hear footsteps. Lawrence. I didn’t even dare to breathe, and clasped a hand over my mouth so my giggles wouldn’t give me away._ _Then I realised I couldn’t see anything, not even my own hands. I had one hand against the wooden door but couldn’t reliably tell that I was in the same wardrobe. Don’t say ‘it was dark outside, of course, you couldn’t see’. It was different and I was suddenly sharply aware that if I didn’t get out right that instant, I would never_ _see the sky again. I darted out, pursued by my own fear and a sound. A regular, echoing rhythm, like the beating of a monstrous heart._

_M_ _aybe I’d be running to this day, but I tripped. There was cool, damp grass beneath me, slipping through my fingers, and hungry darkness all around me. Slowly, and then all at once, the air around me exploded in shimmering white light. I rubbed my eyes, trying to get up on my uncooperative feet. Then it dawned on me what I was looking at, and I could weep with relief._

_Fireflies._ _They were swarming all around me in a way I have never seen before, or since that night._

_I_ _was never especially fearful. Never had that kind of imagination -_ _unlike_ _Lawrence who delighted in inventing the most awful stories to try and scare me. But nothing he ever told me filled me with more dread than his proposa_ _l, because I knew I couldn’t refuse._

_I_ _f only lady Vega hadn’t been so kind. So abominably kind._ _I was so grateful when she suggested I spend the London season with her, and have my debut under her protection._ _Despite my protests, lady Vega insisted on making sure my wardrobe was fit for the occasion, and I struggled to recognise myself in the mirror whenever I accompanied her on the many events she was invited to._

_I_ _can’t shake off the feeling that I entered two distinct societies with lady Vega. The one you and I frequent together, and the_ other _one._

Jon quickly glanced up, suddenly self-conscious when another passenger got on the bus. He’d been alone there until then, so he didn’t have to worry about who might feel disturbed by his reading aloud. The other person, however, sat in the front. They let out a sigh of relief. While it ultimately didn’t matter, he didn’t care to have any listeners. The bus went into a tunnel and he returned to the statement.

_There was one dinner party lady Vega (she’d given me the leave to call her Marie Celeste ages ago but I simply couldn’t) seemed very excited about. Not her usual crowd, that much I could see right away. Laura, I always admired her. Maybe you’ve met her – if that is so, you surely know what I mean. Much like Lawrence, she has that peculiarly pale, almost transparent complexion and dark curly hair. I know her eyes are brown, but as she fussed over me before the party, they looked the colour of molten gold in the candlelight. Bright, almost feverish, but without any warmth._

Jon noted the next several lines were crossed out. Moran’s editing attempts, he assumed, since miss Waterhouse went on to describe her dress in great detail. Feeling a little childish, he mumbled ‘buzz off’ and read the crossed-out part anyway.

_I was asked to wear a low-cut dress of the palest blue silk, decorated with white netting and white lace, creeping all over the gown like vines. Or mould. The white pearl necklace forced upon me was heavy, and I swear I thought my neck would snap under the weight._

_During the dinner, I followed lady Vega as if in a daze, as she introduced me to the rest of the party. I was seated between J. M- and a gentleman, whose name I can’t quite recall, though it could’ve started with F. He was very old and very pink, but unlike the other gentleman, went to great lengths to make conversation and be pleasant. Sadly, that was the highlight of that evening. Even as he told me about his travels – and quite well-travelled he was, I would’ve liked to listen more weren’t I so distracted – I could feel many eyes on me. Not in a lustful way. Forgive me for being so crass, but if that were the case, I would at least understand. It was as if they were sizing up their competition. Or prey._

‘ _Future lady Vega, I presume,’ my companion remarked kindly, his eyes on the choker._

_I blushed, unsure how to respond. At least neither Lawrence nor his mother were within the earshot. But maybe I’m wrong about that, as he proposed the same night. Under the weight of debt of gratitude, I almost accepted without thinking about it._

_I never loved him, but I could see myself marrying him and being content enough with such union. Let me be quite frank – Lawrence is a gentleman, he is handsome, wealthy, and fond of me. It wouldn’t be any great sacrifice on my part to accept the proposal._

_But then I heard it._

_A regular, echoing rhythm, like the beating of a monstrous heart._

_Despite myself, I flinched. Hurt flashed across his face and I begged him to let me give it some thought. He asked me, if I had any reservations that prevent me from giving him an answer immediately. No. Had he ever done anything to displease me? No. Was he ever unkind to me? No. Was I in love with somebody else? No, never. Then why?_

_I stood there, silent and stupid._

_How was I to explain to him that I feared my soul would be in peril if I said yes?_

_I’m writing to you instead of sleeping, Laura. The choker is digging into my flesh, because I can’t take it off on my own, and I’m too afraid to go to lady Vega about this. She didn’t come to see me as she usually would, so I fear she’s displeased with how I reacted to Lawrence’s most generous offer. Is this what love ought to be?_

_I made a mistake at some point. I don’t know where, when, or what it was, but surely, there had to be a choice I didn’t know I was making, a choice that brought me to this exact moment. And now I can see only one way in front of me, and it terrifies me. Even if you choose to never respond, writing to you has been a relief, Laura, because I’ll have to blow out my candle before I go to sleep, and I just can’t be alone in the dark tonight. The candle is getting shorter and shorter in front of my eyes, yet the night stretches out into eternity in front of me._

_May the Lord see it fit to deliver me from the lion’s den. If I’m not deserving, I beg He at least grants me the strength to keep my soul alight through this dark night._

_It’s back. That regular, echoing rhythm, like the beating of a monstrous heart, just outside my door. It’s coming from the hallway – or it was, at least. Now, footsteps. My cue to end this letter._

_Your eternally faithful,_

  
  


_Celia_

  
  


“You like the most depressing bedtime stories,” Jon mumbled in the direction of the tape recorder. He paused, and a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Or rather – grim fairy tales.”

The recorder didn’t laugh.

“Rude.”

They shuffled the papers. There was more to it, probably Moran’s account of the ‘unexpected conclusion’ he’d mentioned in his accompanying letter. Jon groaned internally, and picked up the next part, praying the moron was more brief and less sexist. At least the road was smooth, and the bus driver wasn’t trying to race anyone.

Only then Jon noticed they never left the tunnel.


	2. Chapter 2

A few months ago, Jon would have made at least a half-hearted attempt at telling themselves they were merely imagining things. Maybe the tunnel was only extraordinarily long; he hadn’t been paying attention to his surroundings while he was going through the statement. Jon waited. The bus went on, the same smooth, even drive through absolute darkness. Jon waited. Minutes passed, or at least that was what he assumed. Jon waited. The dark was… oddly disorientating.

He left his bag on the seat and only grabbed his cane. His shoes tapped a quiet, uneven pattern on the bus floor as he made his way to the front. No, the road ahead wasn’t visible through the front window either. The bus lights shone, but there was nothing to illuminate. The sight – or its absence – made Jon queasy and they were just about to address the driver, when they realised it would make no difference.

The driver… was alive. That was a relief. A man, maybe in his late forties, early fifties. Short sandy hair, a size too small crumpled uniform. His knuckles were pure white with the force of his grip on the steering wheel. His eyes were wide open, but unseeing, unblinking, and tears streamed down his ashen cheeks. He was muttering something under his breath, but Jon couldn’t catch any of that, not even when he leaned closer, straining his ears.

Jon… he couldn’t have caused it, right? Their eyes flitted over to the discarded statement on his seat. There was a part of they had yet to go through. Despite the darkness outside, they didn’t seem to be in any danger – in any _immediate_ danger. It was as if everything around him, even the bus itself, was waiting with bated breath.

Maybe this just wasn’t Jon’s nightmare.

Then he saw it. Well ‘saw’ perhaps wasn’t the most accurate description, but there was a spot – a particular seat – that his eyes avoided. He turned his head and focused on that place, but then he averted his gaze without being able to do anything about it. Jon made for his seat and gathered his stuff. Then, in a moment of sparkling idiocy a more charitable soul would call bravery, they seated themselves across the aisle from that one strange seat.

  
  


_Dear Mr Magnus,_

_I hope you found the little narrative as entertaining as I did. Pity about the ending, of course, but well, it is abundantly clear that what miss Waterhouse, or rather, lady Vega’s imagination makes up for what she lacks in style. Yes, she did eventually accept the most generous proposal, and the wedding took place soon after._

_I do admit that while I, for obvious reasons, never shared that with anyone, I claim modest credit for making this union possible. Although Mrs Moran was quick to pen a reply to her friend, knowing that my wife has certain unfortunate ideas from time to time, I intercepted the letter and burned it in secrecy. Her friend, in turn, interpreted the apparent silence wisely._

_Mrs Moran and I were invited to visit them soon after the wedding took place, on a pleasant sunny afternoon. We weren’t able to meet the lucky man at first, as he was feeling under the weather and therefore couldn’t join us until later in the evening, but only seeing the effect married life had on my wife’s friend solidified my belief that my little intervention benefited her greatly. She seems to have calmed down significantly, and her eyes gained that sweet unfocused look indicative of contentment. I often see the same look on Mrs Moran when I educate her on various topics philosophical and moral (nothing too strenuous, naturally), so I should recognise it easily._

_I asked her about what it was that disturbed her while writing a letter to Mrs Moran a while back, wondering whether she remembered the silly missive. She coloured, perhaps a little embarrassed that someone else was familiar with its contents. Then, to my amusement, she responded very gravely: “A present from Mr F--------. He… he is a family friend. There was a note of apology… he wrote he would likely miss the wedding, though of course… I didn’t know then that there would be one.” She paused. “No, that’s not true. I knew it was fate.” It truly warms the heart._

_We were sitting in their parlour – she rose, and walked away for a moment, then returned with an extremely curious item. A globe made of stained glass in shades of blue and green that I didn’t know existed until that day. She must have sensed our confusion, because she explained presently: “It’s a lamp. Charming, isn’t it? There should be a hidden opening for a candle, except it’s hidden too well and I haven’t found it yet. But I’m sure I will. Soon.”_

_Well, that’s one way to entertain a lady, I’ll have to give F-------- that._

_But more to the unexpected conclusion I have hinted at previously. You probably don’t know, I vaguely recall someone mentioning you were in Germany at that time, but this otherwise fanciful story has a very sombre ending. Following a horrific fire, lady Vega lost both her husband and her kindly mother-in-law. Most of the servants were given that night off, so there was no further loss of life, and the young lady herself escaped with only minor injuries. It is very saddening that lord Vega didn’t live to see his heir, born two months after the tragedy. I believe she retreated to the countryside for the time being, but she must’ve lost contact with Mrs Moran, because that’s all the information my wife was able to share about lady Vega’s current situation._

_With my warmest regards,_

  
  


_B. Moran_

  
  


Jon’s shoulders drooped as he let out a deep, shuddering sigh. The darkness outside remained unchanged and he was no closer to finding a way out than he was a moment ago. Still, the rest of the statement did something to alleviate the tension coiled at the pit of his stomach; not the contents, but the act of reading itself. A self-contained ritual, like lighting a cigarette. Hard to tell which habit was nastier.

He glanced in the direction of the seat he struggled to look at, and caught a glimpse of a slender, fine-boned hand. An old handbag. A simple ring. For one short, unfathomable instant, Jon wanted to ask that person whether he’d get their name right. The past years taught him to be suspicious of coincidences, though of course, knowing that all the strange things happened for a reason afforded him no more control over his own involvement.

He knew he was being stupid when he leaned across the aisle, straining his eyes to get one good look at the other passenger. He knew he was stupid when he licked his lips and asked: “Where is the lamp now?”

And he felt like an utter idiot when the other person started and looked at him – an impression rather than a clear picture. Something fragile, something startled, something doomed.

“Sorry.” A voice with a strange, whispery quality, like that of a person unaccustomed to speaking. “I wasn’t listening.”

The bus stopped, and just like that, the world outside was ablaze with light – the orange street lights, bright blue and hot pink lights in shop displays, sharp white lights of other vehicles on the road, and faint glow of light reflected on the damp pavements. The sudden plunge into that luminous world blinded Jon for a moment. They heard footsteps and when they collected themselves, they were alone with the driver on the same stop where they got on the bus barely an hour ago.

Jon rested his forehead against the back of the seat before him and closed his eyes for a minute. It brought little relief, because bright specks still stained the agreeable darkness behind his eyelids. He raised his head when there was another set of footsteps, heavier this time.

“Sir, are you all right? You need to get off, this is the end of the line,” the driver said, calm as can be. But Jon wasn’t fooled, he could see how tense the man still was.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and shrugged. He wasn’t all right, hadn’t been in a long time, but that was hardly the point at the moment. “I’ll just...” A vague gesture to his stuff scattered across the seat next to him. Jon knew he could ask what the driver saw. And he knew he’d get an answer. A _statement_. But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t no matter how badly he wanted to.

His little act of rebellion – against what exactly, he wasn’t sure.

  
  


Chilly wind and shadows followed Jon as they made their way back to the Archives. They didn’t have anywhere else to go, so it was as good a place as any. As bad a place as any. And still, all he could think about was that statement. Maybe he, too, made a choice at some point. A choice he didn’t know he was making; a test he didn’t know he was taking, but a test he failed nonetheless.

  
  


How far back would _he_ have to go to make it right?


End file.
